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Their second year into college, Peter grows a wisp of a mustache and beard and it looks so fucking awful that Michelle wants to die.

She doesn't die, obviously, because she's a baller and she's planning to graduate with awards and get a six-figure salary and be drinking champagne out of her gold-rimmed crystal glasses and she'd be damned if she let a White boi with peach fuzz make her distracted, squander and squirm.

So instead of dying, every time Peter sends her a Snapchat, she replies with the same picture she's pre-saved that's a selfie of herself, frowning at the camera, the caption a single word in white text inside the gradient across the screen: No.

When they FaceTime and he strokes the growing facial hair, and her knowing that he's trying to get a rise out of her, she picks up a hand razor beside her, clicks on an electric razor in the background, or holds a pair of scissors beside her in the camera's view.

This goes on for weeks.

Once and unrelated, he texts her Fuck you , late one day after a particular apathetic response to hearing how he's had to rush ridiculously on a scooter through New York traffic to deliver pizzas, and him almost getting hit by a car en route. (She had made a joke about him and a bug on a windshield.)

Only if you put that thing on your face out of its misery , she replies, not the tiniest bit sarcastic. She doesn't get a reply text for almost a full week later.

It's on a Saturday, nearing eleven at night when she gets a FaceTime call. It's Peter; the angle of the camera tilted up and himself cut out of the view, but she hears him panting and requesting for her to open the door. Tying her drying hair up in a messy bun and making a mental note to return for a pair of socks as she pads across the cold tile floor. And when she tugs the door of her tiny apartment open, the phone is craddled to his stomach, and he's wearing an out of season zip-up sweater and baseball cap, the top of it and its visor and his shoulders are wet from the light rain.

She lets him inside.

She has two flatmates that she shares the space with, and informs that they've gone to study together.

He doesn't speak until they've reached her bedroom, and when he does, it's an impulsive disarray of words and thoughts having a traffic jam to his mouth. Defeated at trying, he pulls out an unbinding bunch of colorful daisies from his book bag, takes a steadying breath—

It's their anniversary. And though the flowers had gotten a little wilted during his journey, she takes them admiringly.

There's a movie playing in theaters, he offers, hands fumbling to his pockets.

But Michelle complains about high ticket prices and tells that she discovered a websites that streams movies in HD.

By the time her flatmates returned in the early hour of the morning, Michelle and Peter are curled up on the couch together, sharing a blanket, and the movie plot is nearing the climax.

He waits until he thinks her flatmates have gone to bed before peppering kisses near Michelle's ear, along her jaw, and down the curve of Michelle's neck. She's slouched across the sofa, curled in his chest, and she shivers at him tilting her head back, his breath blowing across her collarbone and down her oversized shirt, then he's sucking at a pulse point.

She lets out an involuntary sigh, a complaint that's more of a question about them missing the movie streaming on the tv.

Beneath the blanket, his hands glide up and down her arms, and then her sides in time that the antagonist on screen begins monologging; Peter's palms, calloused and groping, slide across her breasts, down her stomach, and pass her naval. Only when her head is against his shoulder, breathes short and quick as his one hand dances around the waistband of her pajama pants, her hips pleading as she begins to squirm, does he leans down to kiss her, and it—

It all fucking stops.

Michelle is grimacing, shaking her head as she stops him from trying to kiss her. "Uh uh," she disapproves.

And Peter's—well, he's confused. "Why?"

"That. That little thing." Her finger encircles her face once before drawing a circle in the air around his mouth. "I'm not kissing that thing. And there'll be no more sex until that has been taken care of either."

He pouts. Asks her "why", again.

She asks him why would he want it anyway—she knows how he's never been fond of facial hair on himself, so this only arose suspicion on her part. She questions if he's been roped into a bet again, or a threat.

His answer is a tiny shrug, and, "I dunno. I just thought... I just thought."

Michelle still isn't convinced, but isn't given much time to contemplate over it because his hand slips past the elastic band of her billowy pajama pants and he's rubbing shapes into the apex between her thighs over her moist underwear, and she gasps, legs spreading widely apart, and grips his arm a little tighter.

"I'm sorry, MJ. But is this going to be a problem still? Or should I stop?"

Her hips arch upward to lean into his touch. Her head turns to bury in his shirt as his motions quicken, becoming erratic. She bites her lip to hold in a keen that slips out from the back of her throat; her eyes are growing heavy and her mouth falls open. Her hips strain to match his speed, and soon she has to cover her own mouth in fear of her flatmates hearing and becoming suspicious.

She whispers his name—it comes out more as a beg that he's very happy to oblige to.

His fingers encircle and add pressure, pinch, and tease. And then he's pulling aside the bridge of her underwear and inserting his long finger at the same instant her nipple is squeezed, and— Michelle gasps, whines into the fabrics of his t-shirt. And he's murmuring against her neck and her heartbeat speeds, grinding on his fingers, her grip on his arm tightens dangerously—

On the tv screen, the final act begins to play of the protagonist versus the antagonist. Michelle doesn't have a clear memory of the ending of the film.

Peter shaves off the facial hair in the next week.

Nearing the ending of their second year in college, Michelle is downing her fourth cup of coffee for that day, has a semester's worth of notes sprawled across her small kitchen table, and is fully prepared with the expectation that this could be an all-night study session; she's had a baguette turkey sandwich earlier, bought from some hole in the wall, and hasn't had much else since. She's running on five hours or less of sleep and isn't expecting her phone to go off until the next morning, having put it on silent. Vibrating beneath a stack of graded lab assignment, there's a single notification across the top of her lock screen.

It's a news report, the app alarming her of any that include the keyword Spider-Man. A rant and argument already forming, mentally, about where Peter is right now or if he needs help or to see a doctor or if there's a smoother way she could aid, Michelle first reads the headline.

It's just some shitty photo in the B-section column of the paper that's too blurry and snapped with a bad solar flare in the view; it's some article about a petty robbery, nothing dire.

It's their third year into college and Michelle is lingering in front of her messy bookshelf; hair up in a messy up-bun, and she's already called into work for that day to take an online exam. Now in a pair of grey sweatpants that had barely fit her two years ago, she's sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, fingers trailing the spines of the novels and biographies she's managed to fit and cram in the shelves' spaces, yet there are still three piles of books stacked beside her.

She exhales a deep sigh, a curl falling loose and into her face.

Just two years ago, everything fit perfectly—her books, her stress levels, her now-thin wallet, her jeans. The very latter that have began to fit all too snugly in her past few years—thanks to stress- driven restaurant runs and surprisingly good campus food.

Michelle's hand brushes along the cover of a novel at the top of one of the piles at her side. It's a hardcover, some thick book she read in middle school, she thinks.

A thought comes to her about a book drive she heard happening in the upcoming month, and she looks back at the various standalones and series that she hasn't touched since her earlier grade school years—a thought comes to her about stacking some of them in an empty cardboard box too...

Michelle shakes her head, far more stingy than she dares to admit.

She leans over, and using a finger, trails down the spines of the books stacked beside her wider hips, reading each title and recalling vague memories of each story. There's one about an Egyptian queen. One on time travel. A biography of a Black dancer in the mid 1900s. There's one that's a science fiction and a murder mystery. There's an autobiography; a journal about a scientist's beliefs on animal evolution and human migration; a collection of fairytales. Michelle's hand stops on a dark blue hardcover; it's near the bottom of the pile, so she pulls it out to read the title she likely hasn't noticed in literal years and—

Michelle sits a little straighter, her eyes widening for a split second as she reads the title, darting like she's just committed a scandal before remembers she's alone in her bedroom and feels foolish. Her fingers drum against the hard cover once. Twice. There's a small debate inside her about whether to add this book with the other old, grade school rejects, or if she should dare to read it again. The only problem is that she's only read this book ones, and from her fleeting memory, she had never gotten to the last chapter.

She turns the book over in her hands. Reads the summary. She feels less shrewd, but inquisitive. Interested. Because the last time she read "On Human Bondage" had been in high school.

She gets it confused with a different novel she once read to entertain her high school fantasies and secret daydreams before chucking it out of fear of being discovered by her parents. Unfortunately, Michelle doesn't remember the title of that novel.

Michelle begins reading "On Human Bondage" that Thursday afternoon on a subway ride home.

She's wearing one of Peter's pullover hoodies which is too large for her, and a pair of jeans that she notes to throw out if her Freshman-21 gains an additional 4 more.

A stop comes up. The subway doors slide open. People stream out of the car, others bulldozing inside; this happens twice more. Once a seat becomes available, now the subway car moderately empty, Michelle takes it and retrieves the novel from the messenger bag hanging across her chest.

An elderly woman gives an odd look about the cover title before she's nodding off to sleep.

Michelle thinks she gets to chapter two when her stop approaches.

The novel isn't very interesting, Michelle comes to find out, and she's honestly—surprisingly—a little disappointed.

She begins reading it during spare time, but she soon realizes that doing so in public probably isn't the best of ideas—this is displayed by the wide variations of brow quirks and conspicuous facial expressions she catches out of the corners of her eyes, and she begins keeping the title hidden— this is shown in the way she becomes far too engrossed and curious whether this is the same book she's mistaken it with. It's daring with steely, ice-cold glares to the fellow rider beside her trying to read over her shoulder. It's lying about the title when a fellow employee or colleague inquires about as a greeting.

It's Michelle beginning to keep the novel in her bag but no longer taking it out.

The novel also comes with its own sets of more personal problems, too—particularly, similarly to the woman on the subway, Michelle's given a questioning look when Peter spots the book in her hands one day.

It had been in during an afternoon date set up at a Starbucks—one that is impossible to miss, so he didn't have much excuse to be very late, she had made sure. They were to get expressos while huddled over spread-out sheets of math and Ethics notes scrawled across notecards, and fighting him in play when he takes candids of her.

That had been how it was supposed to go—and Michelle had been so caught up in the book, a particular part where the main character explains that he couldn't marry a woman because his heart is still enraptured by another. But Michelle should have known better, she thinks now. She should have known when Peter taps the top of the thick hardcover to get her attention, and when he had been wearing an almost worried look on his face.

She should have known that he would tease her relentlessly about it.

The book is nostalgic in a way, yes, though the plot isn't very thrilling and the characters very catching. The summary—a fictional autobiography of Philip, an orphan eager for life, love, and adventure who, after studying at a college and then taking a brief trip to Paris as he wished to be an artist, Phillip settles in London to train as a doctor where he meets a loud waitress who he begins having a sexual obsession with, but she eventually breaks his heart. What encourages Michelle to continue is the drama, and her silently rooting for Phillip to receive the love that's never reciprocated. It's sad, yes, and the character's outcomes are predictable.

She forces herself to read to the ending this time.

Peter comes over and wears equally apprehensive facial expressions as those bystanders when he catches sight of the book—when it pokes out from her bag, left underneath her pillow, and catching her rushing initial reflex to hide it away as he appears. Peter visits and begins to immediately ask about her "bondage book." Peter comes over and drops sly comments and drops thinly concealed questioning about her opinions on cuffs or ropes, on rough or gentle, about how far has this gone and how deeply ingrained is her "new infatuation?" And it's funny to him, she sees, because he makes jokes—about her staying up at night, or arriving late, or bandaged bruises from rushing pedestrians—and he catches the flitting, quick darting of her gaze she had at the beginning and that he doesn't let her forget.

Michelle shrugs and continues on; tells him that the story is about a guy who has difficulty accepting someone's disinterest as a note to back off, and that it's more of a sad, tragic story of the man's downward spiral.

She tells this, and Peter's wearing a cheeky grin. He still teases her about the misleading title—it's in the knowing sweep of his eyes as he climbs through her window and spots it in the crook of her elbow; the sudden, firmer grips on her wrists as he kisses her and teasing about the noises she makes; the sly departing comment about her keeping the book away lest people start talking. It's when she playfully smacks him on the arm after another candid, and he shrieking, "not the cage! Not the cage! Please!" And it's her having to explain the difference between BDSM and bondage, and him being cheeky and coy, a quizzing quirk of his brow, asking how she knows so much about it anyway.

It's her rolling her eyes, ignoring his antics when he visits, and the glances as she approaches the ending of the novel.

Michelle forces herself to finish reading the book this time.

Peter's joking quickly becomes less frequent and brazen, and more so hinted, sly.

"Of Human Bondage" joins the books inside the cardboard box to give away.

Once, a woman approaches Michelle during a lunch break. It's one of the students working at her university's library, some girl she's had a few classes with in the past—her name is Samantha, Michelle thinks. It's something that starts with a S.

Sally approaches Michelle's little picnic table with a wide wave and a semi-forced smile and when Michelle has a mouthful of rice.

It turns out that she noticed the book Michelle had been reading once in the library, having been one of those who caught Michelle reading, and asks what the other thought of the novel as a whole. Michelle fakes a smile and gives some half-assed compliment about the plot and prose.

Stephanie, or whoever, tosses her pin-straight red hair behind a shoulder and adjusts her circular, bookish glasses. She has a display of dust-brown freckles splattered across her face, and she nervously giggles as she offers a book suggestion—because she hadn't favored the previous novel, to which Michelle lets out a sigh of relief and a chuckle, admitting it wasn't the best either.

Sophie offers a pen so Michelle can scribble the title and author on the inside of her forearm.

With a wave, Sybil departs with a risk that she's late to class but was happy to run into Michelle again.

Michelle finds out that Shannon's name is actually Jordan.

Due to disappointment and a craving for new content, Michelle takes a trip to a bookstore after an exam on her way home.

She finds the recommended book in the Adult Section. The cover is paperback, black satin sheets a startling contrast against the blaring white title font that includes "Submissive" in the name.

Michelle begins to wonder what impression she must have left on Jordan...

As she's turning to leave the aisle, there's a book that catches her attention—shelved sideways and obviously left in the wrong section, Michelle first notices the photograph of the author on the back cover and her frizzy, buoyant hair and pearlescent smile. Turning to the front, this book isn't like most of the others taking room down the sides of the aisle—of muscled, godawful obviously photoshopped fair-skinned couples on a red background by the sea or on a horse or a raunchy Twilight knockoff or whatever cheesy, overdone concept that followed the latest trend.

Michelle turns the soft mauve-purple book in her hands. "Push The Button," it read, above a picture of an engraving of the word PUSH in metal. She flips the pages idly, catching a few phrases here and there, and begins to wonder the bookstore. But suspicion doesn't arise until she reads the summary. Then she reads it again before taking a quick glance around from an inkling of being watched. She re-reads it twice more. And she feels devious. Curious. Intrigued.

Michelle buys the book immediately.

By the end of that day, she's already past the first four chapters.

It takes a while for the drama to build, but she doesn't mind. These new characters are interesting, goal-oriented, and written fairly well—and it's a nice break from the old readings assigned for class. But once she starts, she doesn't exactly want to stop. It's also attention-grabbing and diverse and—well, it's enticing in other ways too.

Michelle begins reading it whenever she gets time alone—at empty study tables in the library for "breaks" between studying; at a small table during her lunch breaks, during similar subway rides to and from destinations. But she soon realizes that doing so in public isn't the best idea for her this time—this is displayed by her visible impatience to steal away and continue reading as the plot thickens while it simultaneously grows heated and descriptive—this is displayed by the way Michelle begins growing irritated with her shrinking jeans and would jiggle her foot, wishing the ride home went quicker, the tight irritation of her pants and the way she would squeeze her thighs together desperately—this is shown in the way she becomes far too engrossed and curious with the novel than she would ever admit. It's hoping for when she could get the next chance to sneak a read; it's closing it in embarrassment from nosy bystanders, fellow employees, or colleagues; it's soon imagining another face in the place of the character for specific, passionate sections in the story.

It's Michelle beginning to keep the novel in her bag but no longer taking it out because she doesn't trust herself. It's Michelle only taking it out when she's alone and home and snugly beneath the blankets of her bed. Sometimes late at night. Mostly on the weekends and off days.

This plot is filled with drama and returning of old, unwanted flames and trust; it's captivating and charming and it's—carnal. She especially appreciates the details about the soft, carved body arches and the silky smooth seduction of words and languid erogenous motions written in luxurious detail.

She likes it—a lot.

She makes an idle notice that this novel's cover is discreet, nearly impossible to guess its contents thus proving much easier to hide that fact.

Regardless her book change, Peter continues his taunting with lingering, assuming looks and snickering.

Michelle continues to not give a reaction—though little does he know that his assumptions are actually correct this time.

But she doesn't let him know this, of course.

It's during one of their meet-ups where it all grows out of control.

Michelle's lying on her stomach on her bed, a half eaten package of Oreos being shared, and a playlist of classical music runs from her laptop as background noise.

The purpose here had been to refresh from a recent quiz; Peter more-so could use it due to his dropping grades. It's something that he decides to not share with his aunt immediately; it's also a topic that he chooses to avoid—as he's currently lying on his back beside Michelle, scrolling through his phone.

He's on Twitter, she sees, and there's a hardness to his face. She briefly catches the hashtag '#SpiderMan' beneath his scrolling thumb.

"Looking at it isn't going to make it any better," she advises, turning back to his notes written in hurried, sloppy scrawl.

He doesn't reply. And his jaw clenches when he reads a particularly biting comment on a video.

"Hey," she tries again.

She gets a grunt in response. He scrolls through the selfies of strangers taken using his signature hand sign, part of a rising selfie challenge.


He mumbles, "yeah?"


"I am," he lies.

Michelle squints. As a test, she murmurs low enough that he hears, "I'm going to take my shirt off."

And his head snaps to her, Twitter feed suddenly forgotten. "Huh?" Michelle stifles a chuckle. "I said, what's the answer?"

And he's blinking in alarm. He's hesitant to admit that he hadn't actually heard her question, assuming that her murmur had truly only his imagination.

"Yeah, didn't thank you are listening." She pushes up to her knees, and pulls her tank top back down and over her stomach. Over the last few years of university, she's found out that food particularly liked settling in her hips and thighs. And she stretches, brushes hair out of her face, reads aloud a question from his notes.

Peter takes a moment to think and answer.

Their quiz session goes back and forth for another while as Michelle paces in circles in front of him. She would read a question or two, and he would ask for a kiss as a reward when he gets more than three correct. Michelle objects; he settles on the compromise for fifteen minutes of cuddling at the end.

He just had an exam, he tells as an excuse when he fails answering correctly. Her hand runs through his hair and making it stand on end. She quizzes him three more questions before he admits that these sessions do help—and that her running hands in his hair is making him tired.

Withdrawing, he pouts as she scolds, "well you need to stay up. We're almost halfway done with this. You can hold out a little longer?"

"Yup." Then, he mumbles more as a half-hearted snark, "that's what she said." He receives a smack on the shoulder.

"Sorry! Sorry..."

(He's not really.)

"Anyways—you perv—I'll be right back." She stands, stretches her arms above her head, and she definitely doesn't purposely look towards the pile of pillows on her bed as she turns, points, and orders, "don't move," and her hips certainly don't sway a little extra in those snug yoga pants she's wearing and that's he's complained about on multiple occasions as she departs for the bathroom.

And Peter definitely doesn't fall for it, he tells himself. Because there's nothing to fall for. Because Michelle is outspoken and isn't devious enough to indicate that he shouldn't slide his hand underneath her bed pillow—as he does exactly that, refusing to fall again for her deceiving again, like her poorly chosen hiding spots for Christmas present last year.

He waits until he hears the bathroom door click shut far down the hallway before sliding both hands underneath her pillows and stuffed Chewbacca toy he gifted her a year ago. His knuckles hit something hard, and to his surprise—and slight dismay—he finds a book. It's a different one; not the one he expected. Taking a look around, he spots a closed cardboard box in the corner between her desk and a wall. This book is mauve and plain; he tosses it between his hands, flips through the pages, considers looking through that box to find Michelle's bondage book—not because he had been curious about it, oh no, of course not!

Peter's just swung his legs over the side of her bed and stands with a rush, already gearing to dash to the box, when the bathroom door opens and Michelle's coming down the hallway and shaking her hands dry and Peter freezes.

Peter fucking freezes.

He curses himself the entire time that Michelle stares from the open doorway. She wipes her hands on her pants and stares. Her brows wrinkle. Blinks. She catches him red handed with what he knows had been purposely hidden from him, and he's wearing such a guilty look and quickly hides what he could underneath his arm. To him, it feels as if an hour has passed.

She squints. Eyes darts from her book in the crook of his elbow, the cover color blaring and obvious against his dark indigo shirt that he's wearing, up to his wide saucer eyes. She inquires, "what are you doing?"

Like an idiot, he points repeatedly to her bed covers. Words stop working. His grip on the book

tightens before he swallows. Speaks, "I was—I was—I found—"

"Why are you stuttering?" She sounds far too nonchalant for his nerves. Then he sees her gaze drag back to the book like she notices it for the first time and he knows there's no getting out of this as she folds her arms and she asks, "is that my book?"

Again, he points wildly. "MJ, I—"

It isn't so much that he's afraid, per se, but remembering how guarded she had been for last year's Secret Santa and how she'd grown legitimately angry at snooping others, Peter just didn't want to have a repeat on what had been a sunny Friday afternoon this day.

But Michelle is striding froward, arms still crossed and there's a stolid firmness to her features that makes him swallow for a second time. She doesn't break eye contact as she steps toe to toe with him and plucks the book from his arm. Glancing down only once to look it over for damages, she's still far too calm when she tells, "I told you to not move."

"MJ," he tries, "I'm—"

Suddenly the book is pressed to his chest in a rough gesture of handing it back. "If you wanted to look at it so much—then here."

Peter fumbles. Actually, he tells he had been looking for something else. And with Michelle's eyes widening, questioning for him to go further, he steels himself, bounces on his toes once.

"I had been expecting this to be your—your bondage book," he admits. His tongue darts out once, a nervous tick of his.

And Michelle—she isn't as surprised as he expected and she bows her head, mumbles, "of course you were..." She bites her lip, catching his tongue slide across his bottom lip nervously.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Nothing..." And she saunters over to the box spotted in her corner. The book in question is sitting right on top of the pile inside. He sighs, sill mentally kicking himself. Michelle throws an arm in the direction of the box in a sarcastic invite. "There you go," and as she's walking back to her bed, mutters, "you perv."

And of course he catches it.

Michelle flops on her mattress, bouncing slightly. She gives an innocent, "what?"

"That—what you just said! You called me a perv!"

The facade continues as her eyes dart to the mauve-purple book still in his hands and she just shrugs. "Well are you not?"

And Peter's mouth drops opens. He's still looking back at her from over his shoulder and he can'tnot go against it from knowing how she'll very likely roast him. So instead, he shoots back, "says the one with a book on bondage!"

Michelle leans back on her arms, watching him grab the book in question. "And so what?"

Peter stares.

He squints.

Because Michelle is sitting before him, looking like every acutely lax University student up for seven AM classes that Peter's met, and he can't quite rationalize her presence on her mattress with the stationary poise of her words spoken.

"Is this—do you—that doesn't—you don't just have a book like this for no reason." It's more of an ask, approaching the end of her bed. A chuckle punctuates his sentence, sounding more unsure than he felt.

"You're right." Michelle lifts her chin, smooths her fingers down the bottom of her tank top. A lock of hair falls from her crudely done bun and she jerks her head, tossing it back. And there's a smoothness, an almost luring charm as she invites him to sit back beside her. She snarks, "I had this as a way to find a way to entrap your soul—no, why else do you think I have it? It's just a boring book."

Peter's confused.

"To be honest, I thought you had it so you can learn how to actually tie knots." This is directed to an incident last year that involved moving furniture on a dolly and Michelle's honestly awful knots that did not hold, and racing after the dolly down a steep hill.

"I can tie just fine, thank you," she defends, bouncing as his weight is added to her bed. And he barks a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

He snorts. "That's something I'd have to see to believe!"

And she doesn't speak anymore and neither does he as he reads the summary on the back of her bondage book, distracted enough to ignore her getting up searching in the far corner of her closet. When she returns, the same thin red ropes they had used back then are in her hands.

She tells him to shut up and give her his feet. She asks him for his opinion about her bondage book now—he admits it sounds just as boring as she had told him. But he asks to hear her thoughts anyway; she shrugs and tells that it was just ok, I guess.

There's a fringe of hair still sticking up from his hair. He watches her finish the knot around his ankles—it isn't like ones he's seen before, appraising her.

Michelle stands. There's rope still in her hands and he gets a twisting in his gut that she isn't finished.

"Ok, MJ, can you untie me know?"

"Did you know that there's over eleven different ways to knot?" she asks as if he hadn't spoken.

"No, I did not know there's many ways to knot." He's the only one grinning at his corny joke.

"Can you not?" Then, she disappears somewhere behind him to loop the rope around his torso once and then around her headboard. The one she's tying right now is her favorite, she informs, a melodious lilt to her words. Then instructs for him to relax his arms at his sides.

It's unannounced and unrehearsed, he finds it, when he's lying flat on her mattress minutes later, red rope crossing over his sides, across his chest, holding his shoulders together, and winding down to his immobile ankles. And she's standing at the edge of her bed, an elbow resting atop her arm across her torso, and biting her finger's knuckle.

"This is ridiculous," he says, squirming.

Michelle grins, a giggle bubbling up the back of her throat. "Actually, I think it's kind of funny."

Peter shuffles, reminding her of cartoons of fish flopping out of water. "No it's not," he whines, fighting against it but not wanting to break the ropes.

"You think so—then admit it, I'm better than you at doing knots."

It's a struggle, but he's staring, glaring back at her. He refuses to admit it, or submit her the pleasure from him. "Just because you read some book—"

Michelle pops her hip. She wrinkles her nose, but otherwise remains silent. She then folds her arms over her lower abdomen. Unfolds them. Clenches her jaw. Presses her lips together. Sniffs, just once, like she's irritated she has to provide a verbal explanation for this. Blurts out—

"Ask me about that other book."

Peter coughs. "What?"

"Ask me about the other book," she repeats, a hint of acid in her tone.

"Fine. What about that other book? The purple one, right—the purple one."

"That one," her chin jabs toward it lying near the corner edge of her bed, "is the bondage book."

Peter's head whips from it, back to her, and he looks betrayed.

"Now," the mattress dips with her added weight beside him and Peter's pulse momentarily speeds. She stifles a giggle. "Since you wanted to know so badly..."

"Ok, MJ, you've made your point."

It's an indication to leave, for her to undo. Because Michelle Jones and her full, chapstick-glossed lips do not belong to be stretching into a coy smile. With Peter pinned before her. Immobile. With her diamond earrings that had probably cost more than triple his paycheck and her tight-fitting grey yoga pants that she's probably never actually attended yoga in, and her sudden unimpressed pout as she gives him a slightly too-long once-over—it's all fundamentally wrong. Flummoxing. Frustrating.

It's tantalizing. Titillating. Exciting.

She shakes her head, and it's quite disarming as she leans over him. It's not quite a kiss, but a brushing of lips as she speaks. "But what if I were to tell you the truth—what if I like you like this? Tied up. Just like a little present for me?" She explicitly points out about the dark indigo shirt doing a terrible job at concealing his arms that just scream eat me. About how he's always such a tease to her and how the weeks of him mocking her hadn't been nice.

He goes stiff; there's a wrinkle between his brows that's less confusing as it is anxious. His jaw is tight.

Michelle notices the rope digging into his arms because of his straining and she reminds him, "you're not allowed to move," and she kisses him, and a hand is sliding up his chest. "And if you pop any of these ropes," and her fingernails trace his muscles over the fabric and she kisses his cheek. "Well," she kisses his jawline, "that would be just terrible wouldn't it?" Her lips attach to his neck.

He inhales sharply through his nose. "MJ..."

Michelle hums against his neck before placing an open-mouthed kiss there.

Peter sighs.

She continues on with his silence, only earning a hiss when she lightly bites. Until, "have I finally shocked you to silence? The ever talkative Peter Parker? God, what an accomplishment...!"

His neck has a collection of rosy crescent marks and ellipses. She kisses her handiwork, his cheek.

"You want to admit it now that I have you in my clutches? That you're all mine, my little mighty spider..."

He grunts. A part of him wants to smile but he doesn't want to give her the pleasure.

A finger trails the indent down his stomach, grabs the end of his shirt and lifts, weaving between the ropes. He shivers once in reaction to the air; his mouth opens at the start of words that don't come, Michelle's lips smoother snuff away any further attempts. And when her hands tangle in his hair, further disheveling it and bringing him in for a deep kiss, and her thigh drapes across his stomach—

He strains against his binds, resisting his reflexes to touch.

"I put a lot of work in tying you up. Don't you dare." A brow of hers raises in playful challenge.

He breaths. Sighs. Eyes closed and he's so focused on her weight flush against him and her lips working and he's stunned out of his trance when she calls for his attention. Say something, she tells, asks, a noise, a word or anything. The feel of her thigh retracting, sliding south, and hands retreating and her lips pressing in a line and he yelps, "MJ—!" Calms. He swallows. "This—" Clears his throat. "This is ne—"

"Too much?" she finishes for him.

He's silent. The hand that had been caressing his abdomen pulls away, and her thigh slides lowers as she begins to get up and away and there's a look of alarm that flashes across his face and he goes absolutely still and is turning pomegranate red and—

Michelle stops. The room goes completely silent.

Peter's still lying when a look of almost fear flashes as her leg shifts again, brushing something firm and rigid.

"Wait." Pause. "Are you... Are you seriously hard right now?"

He looks away, blushing even more.

And she's laughing now. "Wow, Peter—!"

"I can't help it! You know I can't help it!" he pleads.

To his dismay, she continues to giggle at the small protruding bulge beneath his zipper. "It's not funny," he whines childishly.

She doesn't stop. "What part was it? The ropes? What I said? I gotta know!"

Peter's head turns, presses his face into her bunched covers, groans.

"You, Parker," and she kisses his cheek in apology, "are a kinky bastard, huh?"

Excuses and objection are already pouring from him when he's stopped.

"You want to use a safe word?"

She's as undecided as he feels and the silence that follows is mango sweet and thick with apprehension, with tension, with expectation and he doesn't exactly want to pull away but he doesn't want to look away from the optimistic glint in her eye and that she's chewing her lip, pink from her actions, and he's hesitant—

"Cauliflower." His voice is gravely, faint.

Chapter Text

She cocks a challenging brow and drops a chaste kiss on his mouth, lowers to kiss his neck, sucking briefly at the pulse point, bite gingerly at his skin and smiling hearing him gasp. Her hands are roaming while his blood hums and his chest clenches and his pulse hops, skips when her tongue glides down to the sharp wings of his collarbone, and Peter tries to hold back a moan as her thigh—thinly covered and tempting in that grey material—slides over his dick again. And by the third time she does it, he's sure that it's on purpose—like he's pretty sure that the pink of her tongue isn't foretelling and the mauve-purple of her book had to have been an omen and how he's sure that she enjoying this far too much for this to be a spur-of-the-moment.

She's murmuring adoring pet names across his skin as his shirt is bunched up under the ropes and she begins planting open mouthed kisses to his chest.

He breaths heavily. "MJ..."

She fingers the button-fastenings of his trousers as she leaves a mark on his right pectoral. She turns toward him, shifting her body off so that she's no longer weighing on him, looks up so that she can see his face—and her hand slides over the bulge of his pants. He hisses.

"My, Peter," she jokes, taking note of his tight lips and flaring nostrils. "How hard are you?" An open palm rubs circles atop his pants' swelling, feeling it rising. "You're not going to talk to me now?" she pokes at him.

He remains silent, turned away from her.

Michelle's hand slips down further to cup him fully over his trousers and he tenses in reflex. Her fingers work, palming and fondling, his breathing quickens, stutters, and he's growing harder in her hand.

She kisses the indent between his pectorals. "You know, you staying quiet isn't going to make this any easier on you." Her hand presses into him harshly and he grows harder and gasps, struggling against the thin ropes. "In fact," she kisses near his areola and he bites hard on his bottom lip, "I think I'll need to punish you..."

She gives an appointed squeeze that rips a loud keen from his throat. "No—!"

"Come again?" she asks, voice sickly sweet as her hand slides over, messaging him roughly, presses her palm flat against him mercilessly.

"Not—no more punishmen—no!" he breaks off when she adds pressure, his voice airy and careful, so careful, like he's focussed on every word and they're fragile, like they're liable to break if he isn't mindful enough—as if he doesn't respect her wishes it will be dire.

Michelle continues, alternating between handling him roughly or tenderly, between focusing on nibbling and kisses and tongue kisses. And Peter is whispering, asking her to stop teasing, that he's ready for the teasing and punishment to end when, suddenly, she stops.

He's heaving, his blood rushing and racing and he holds back a plea, still refusing to give her that pleasure of knowing she's right.

"Who said this was the punishment?" she eventually says.

And Peter's gut sinks and simultaneously contorts and flutters and he's watching her lick her lips, mimicking his unconscious action, and her nails lightly press into the skin of his hip and he knuckles are turning white as she draws herself to be flush against him.

"You kept teasing me and probably should be..."
He releases a long, stuttering sigh, pleading with his eyes. "God, MJ..."

"Don't," she dismisses. "Don't call me MJ." Then she backtracks, questions if he wants to use those names people sometimes do.

It's a bit of a struggle at first, but he's shortly leaning up to kiss her, secretly hoping that she doesn't pull away as his mouth closes around hers. "Yes, Miss Em."

"You've thought about this, haven't you?" She grins, noting his quick answer.

He's kissing her with tongue to avoid the question, but she presses a hand to his chest, signaling to stop.

"Maybe." He gives a peck. "A little." Another. Runs his tongue across her lip in a persuasion to continue.

The hand on his chest pushes further, coaxing him to lay back down to the bed. "Good," she gives. "Good." Michelle's still kissing him, keeping and palming his full hard-on. Bites his lip, trying to get another sound out of him that she knows he's withholding on purpose. Drapes her leg across his knees when he begins squirming again and squeezes his swelling bulge while biting his lip again, her hand roaming his muscles—it's too much to handle as the confines of his pants are constricting him completely. It's too much and a short moan snakes out of him.

Michelle's own moan follows. "Oh, Peter." Her motions don't cease, and Peter's pretty sure that he's as hard as he can stand in his trousers, now grinding desperately, mechanically into her hand. "You look so good." Her voice is raspy and honey sweet. "I want you so bad," she lowers to kiss the top of his muscled stomach, rolls her hand around his zipper and he bucks into her palm. "Will you be good?"

His answer is an immediate, "yes—I'm—be good!"

She huffs, pleased. "How can I keep your word for it? How can I trust you?"

He's gasping now, completely hard underneath her, her squeezing not helping, squirming against his binds. "Anything—I'll do anything! I'm—I'm sorry, MJ! I'll do anything, I'll eat you out! Just please, please unzip me..."

And she'd be completely lying if she said this wasn't giving her even the tiniest bit of pleasure...

Pulling away, she revels in his tightly shut eyes and desperate roll of his hips as she gives him one last fondle. "Well, I guess." She takes a leisurely slow retract of her leg from over him, doesn't try to hold back the small grin this time. "But—you said 'MJ.' So, therefore, that needs to be dealt with an appropriate additional punishment. And your suggestion may be fitting for it."

"I'm sorry, Miss Em! Oh God, I, um—I didn't—Miss Em, I'm sorry!" spill from him continuously because she doesn't relieve him, and instead stands up from the bed. Then next thing he sees are her pants sliding down and long, model legs. Swallowing thickly, he wets his lips again, apologies still pouring from him and his eyes are wide—she climbs back up to kneel over him on her bed, her knees bracketing his head, and he's quieted with a chastise—"you need to learn your lesson"—and then he quieted completely with a muffle.

He's already prepared, open, and latches immediately.

Michelle shivers violently.

Fingers run around her headboard, claw down and slap the wall. Her chest swells, her breath catching. Her head bows.

She swallows, hunches forward and mewls as he leaves molten-lava slow kisses to her sensitive bundle of nerves. He speaks something, she's sure, but it comes out more as a mumble into her crotch, and the vibrations of his following hum send needle-sharp chills down her spine.

Michelle whimpers as his open mouth works on her hot center, his tongue writing letters against her clit. Her hand smacks the wall loud enough she's sure her flatmates could hear; her other dives down to weave in his hair as she arches back, rocks her widened hips, sobs—he's intent, concentrated, and focused, flicking and sucking and swallowing and making a point to noisilyslurp as he eats her out greedily. She gasps loudly as he nibbles her sensitive nub and violently shutters. He kisses it better and sucks, thrusts, fucks.

There's a snap of the rope somewhere behind her, but it goes unnoticed.

She oblivious, Peter begins rolling his hips into the air.

When her hold on his hair tightens, her thighs pressing together over his ears, and she begins whispering his name alongside God's in a higher than normal pitch, he begins paying extra attention to her button.

His motions speed, become increasingly urgent and tenacious as his pants are squeezing him as far as they can, and his hips jerk into the air in time with hers over his tongue.

The coupling of the vibrations of his occasional muffled speaking and his actions are what makes her approach her finish sooner than expected. He traces a bee line, flicks, and then he's sucking at her clit when she feels the copper coil preparing to unwind—she has to forcefully pull away with shuttered breath.

Peter detatches with a loud suction and a pout. "I wasn't done!"

Her chest is heaving and she's visibly shaking. "I can't—I need to stop."

"But you didn't cum yet." And he sounds more like a disappointed child who's treat was taken.

She's gasping. "I know. That—that's—"

"Let me make you cum." And it's spoken so sincerely, a request within the statement, he's looking up at her so hopefully, so intensely that she nearly melts on the spot. "I'm not finished with my punishment," he adds.

There's brief hesitation.

Michelle sits herself back for a second time.

Several minutes later, she cums loudly and trembling, a curse on her tongue and single words of affirmation mumbled mantra in the aftershock; her nails yanking at his scalp and her spine bends in a smooth arch. This time, she parts with a kiss left on her inner thigh.

She's still breathing hard and fast when she lies beside him.

A dopey half smile breaks across his face watching her run a hand through her hair, fingers hitting the hair tie holding her disshelved bun. She's still catching her breath when she turns to press soft, appreciative kisses to his neck and shoulder. His face is a mess—hair sticking every which way, and he licks his mouth, ridding what moisture he could.

"Jesus. You could have," she pauses, swallows, "could have gone a little lighter."

Peter scowls.

Michelle places her lips on his bicep.

"Miss Em?"


Peter presses his lips in a tight line, inwardly waging whether to give in and beg or not. Instead, he lets out a frustrated groan, his dick pulsing. "Now can you...?"

She blinks. Shifts so that she's eye-level with him again, her hands glides down his torso, pressing into the indents of his muscles, rubbing across them, feeling him up. She makes sure to take her time, breaking eye contact only a few times. Then a finger follows the line of hair down his stomach, disappearing beneath his trousers; slides across the bulky protrusion of his pants. He moans immediately, rolling into her touch.

"Well, I guess you've learned your lesson, right?" A finger trails from the bottom to the top end of his pants' zipper.

In answer, Peter moans her name luridly.

Without warning, she yanks his belt buckle loose, his buttons, and drags the clasp of his zipper down at a mockingly slow pace that makes his eyes squeeze shut at the leisure release, and a final, whimpered, "God...shit!"

Similarly without warning, he's standing at eager attention when he's pulled from the confines, Michelle sees, a proud tent inside his boxers. He moves, straining against his binds and fights against the urge to break them. She sees a wet spot has formed at his tip from precum, dribbling and bubbling up through the fabric.

He groans. Starts babbling—and Michelle knows he wants to be touched, wants to be caressed and squeezed and stroked and fucked—Peter starts babbling about how he wants her, about how he wants out of these ropes, promises that he'll do what she wants but please; he tells that he wants to touch her, kiss her, please her, because he's growing desperate (this he doesn't tell) and he's throbbing and tired of her teasing for once and he's ready.

"How hard are you?" A nail drags up his shaft, lingering at his tip which coaxes an instant thrust of his hips. "Huh, Peter?" Her finger encircles his tip in a further taunt until she decides pull over his boxer. Then, her hand wraps around him. He bucks again, twice, and then again, hissing from back in his throat.

"So hard," he nearly sobs.

She tisks. Strokes him twice, fast and forceful. "And to know there's nothing you can do." She's speaking against his cheeks slowly and sensuous, leaving a kiss there or on his mouth or jawline with every few words. "You can't can' anything but suffer the my mercy."

Peter sucks in a breath. Pleads now. Is cut off as she strokes him slowly this time and his hips snap.

"Do you want to fuck my hand?" she chides more than asks. Her grip tightens at his base, squeezes tighter at his tip. And he's twitching terribly, weeping for attention. "Should I let you? ...Or is that too nice to allow?" Her questions aren't for answering.

A noise she can only describe as a straggled cry comes from him as she begins jerking him off in a rhythm. His breathing is jagged and he's rocking his hips forward chasing the finish line of a release and he's so hard that it's painful. Michelle brushes away a fallen lock of hair as she positions above him; her hand is tight and teasingly slow around him and her mascara is beginning to clump and smudge and Peter's thrusting into her hand pathetically when the hot gust of her breath blows across his eager, sensitive tip and he shutters, teeth digging into his lip and he's panting, outright begging; she squeezes him again and he's so fucking close already, his mouth dropping open and his eyes widening, head falling back against her bed covers, and he can imagine the moist softness pink of her lips that he hopes are lowering to him and he can imagine his hands in the tangles of her hair, and he—

All of a sudden it stops.

"You know, that would be too nice to do."

He panics. "Wait! No—!"

"Yeah," Michelle slides off the bed, ignore the doe-eyed pleading he's given as his heart sinks at her words, too sugary and guiltless. "You were mean, all those times before. You have to be punished."

He's appalled.

He watches her slide on her underwear, her pants, grabs her keys from atop her dresser. She gives him two more departing strokes before leaving him on the bed, erect and distraught and terribly aroused.

She doesn't actually leave, though—only going to the kitchen for water and a fruit cup. But the sounds of his desperate sobs and whines are enough to make her think the lie was worth while.

She leaves him for a few minutes more.

Michelle is thankful that her flatmates are out.

Peter doesn't turn down the proposed offer of a round two.

"Miss Em" is used as the codeword to leave and find privacy.

The next time, it's months later at the end of their third year—round two involves his wrists under multiple layers of webbing to his headboard, Michelle's panties in his mouth, and his uncouthed sex talk muffled around the fabric.

"Miss Em" is used sometimes when he wraps his arms around her in a hallway and requests in her ear to steal her away.

Sometimes it's in her question when her legs are draped across his legs.

There's once that's Michelle held to a plush chair, hands behind her back and she's bare. Blindfolded. Shaking, stimulated—

But maybe that's for another time.

Chapter Text

Michelle doesn’t actually leave her apartment, though—only going to the refrigerator for a fruit cup for herself and two water bottles. Leaning an arm against the counter, she doesn't start eating the cup with a spoon at first, grabs one, and a devilish grin growing around her bitten lip at the sounds of Peter’s desperate sobs and whines. It's enough to assure that the harmless "lie" was worthwhile—"lie" because she knew he could effortlessly hear her still talking around her little apartment.

Michelle's key ring sits atop a long forgotten magazine opened on the small kitchen table. She’d left her boyfriend back in her bedroom, lying on her bed, erect and distraught and terribly aroused but tied up.

She hears him whimper from the kitchen and remembers his relenting taunting the past weeks. She hears the light springing of her bed as he squirms and things back to his constant teasing, laughing at the possibility of her quiet, bibliophile personality combining with explicit desires.

Michelle hears him groan. Hears more rhythmic springing, then there’s only his soft groaning. And then there’s a sob, faint, but it’s there. And then it’s louder, more distinct, because he cries, “MJ, please!” It’s so cute and desperate that she couldn’t help but smile around the upturned spoon in her mouth.

He wants her—so eagerly too. (And she'd be lying if that didn’t make her feel damn good and downright confident.)

She decides to leave him for a minute more. Looks to the time on the stovetop: she'd been away for nearly seven minutes.

Michelle is thankful that her flatmates are out, less they would be greeted with sounds of her boyfriend moaning, whining about his unattended hard-on, sobbing about wanting the touch of his girlfriend.

He's so desperate; it fuels her previously wounded ego.

Michelle takes her time to rinse out the plastic fruit cup, and as she does the spoon, she calls out, “awww, you’re begging, Peter!” It sounds more like a tease. It's completely a tease. “You can’t beg. You're not allowed to.”

She’s answered by a shuttering sobbing of “ple-e-ease!” from her bedroom down the hall.

Michelle's smile grows wider. “You can’t do what you’re told?” she calls over her shoulder, hears her bed springs loudly as he moves. “Tisk. Naughty boy.”

There’s a low, “Please, Miss Em! I’m so hard!” Then more springing, and finally silence.

She takes her time to meaninglessly carry the empty fruit cup to the recycle bin kept by the front door, go back and wash her metal spoon, and return to the front door to listen for any possible approaching footsteps of her flatmates. There aren’t any, so she dries her hands on the seat of her fitted grey yoga pants and walks back down the hall. She’s carrying with her two water bottles. 

When she re-enters, Peter’s managed to sit up and at the edge of her disheveled bed. From the look of it, he's been wrestling with his lust and not popping the ropes with his strength. His shirt is still pushed up, bunched under the ropes and exposing his muscles for her enjoyment; his crotch outlined, fly down, and he’s exposed; his head is bowed like he's realized he's being punished and he’s breathing heavily like he’s trying to focus, like he's asleep.

Michelle wonders if he’d actually fallen asleep—she’d only been gone for seven minutes…

She gets her answer when she stops beside him, placing a hand on top of his head, concerned. Then, the uncapping of one bottle the only sound in her room—in the entire apartment, in fact. She gets her answer when she runs a hand through his unruly hair, down the side of his face and he leans into her touch, his head falling back so he can look at her—and the sight of his lips bright from use and their kissing, the curve of his neck decorated from her marking and his wide eyes focused on her makes Michelle bite her lip. Makes her breath catch, her mind halt. Lamely, she offers the opened water bottle. Peter takes the bottle, drinking wordlessly, and only breaks eye contact when his close as he finishes drinking.

“You ok?”

He doesn’t answer. Or, it takes him a minute to, then gives a singular nod.

Lowering the bottle form his mouth, Michelle wonders if he’s angry, actually, finally, or if he wants to stop this altogether. So, capping the bottle and leaving it on the floor near the bedpost, she asks this question once she’s finally sitting beside him.

Peter’s quiet, watching her for a moment longer. When she moves to begin untying him, he stops her. Instead of her continuing, he shifts to lean in her face.

With still-clouded eyes and a desire in his voice, asks, “kiss me.”

But Michelle doesn’t. There’s still the fear that she’s taken this too far.

She shakes her head. “Peter—”

Now, his mouth slants across hers as he speaks. “Fuck, MJ. Kiss me.” He’s breathing heavy and she can taste his, hot and lustful, on her tongue. “You’re so hot. God, kiss me, please.”

She's hesitant but she does, earning an immediate groan from her boyfriend.

Pulling away, again she offers to bring this all to an end, says that she wouldn't mind to if this has been taken too far. Her hands go to pull his boxers back up securely, but she stops when he flinches, shifts, whispers a ‘fuck!” as her hand brushes against his unattended tent.


“N-no. Don’t. I... I—I want—” She’s confused but Peter musters out between shivers of having her so close again and her hands finally on him, his senses highly sensitive at this moment. “I don’t want you to stop,” he finally breaths out, his voice deep with lust.

Somewhere, a pit stirs inside her stomach and butterflies fill. She adds that he doesn’t have to keep doing this because she was enjoying it early.

He assures that he isn’t, but he truly wants to continue. That, and how he’s still aroused, he admits it with a chuckle. Peter leans in close again. “Please, Miss Em. I’ve been bad. Wasn’t I supposed to be getting punished? …Or some other?”

The butterflies flutter and die when she bursts out in laughter at his attempts of dirty talking failing at his flustering.

Peter wrinkles his nose in a frown. “Fuck you,” is chuckled.

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” she teases, smirking in his face. “Punishment.”

“That’s the purpose, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe.” She bites her lip, still smiling. A hand reaches to slide up his thigh. “That depends…on a few things.”

“Like what?”

She pouts as if she’s thinking. “Rules.”

Now he swallows nervously. “What kind of rules?” He’s almost afraid to ask.

Michelle hums, like she’s tossing over a decision between something minimal. “Simple ones. Nothing big.” She catches his Adam’s apple bob, and like a bolt, her confidence returns. “One: you’re not allowed to break the ropes.”

“What if—”

“There’s isn’t an if,” she answers his unfinished questions, and is instead answered with a nervous twinkle in his widened eyes. “Two: you want to keep the names?”

He nods.

“Then, every time you don’t say ‘Miss’ or ‘Miss Em,’ it’s another prolonged finish.” 

By now, Peter’s looking visibly nervous and uncertain, holding his breath. “Ok. Sure. …Whatever you say.”

That sparks an idea. “You want to make that the last one? I mean, I was going to add something else like giving you a giant, maybe heart-stopping finish instead. But what do you—?”

“That’s fine. Because I’d very much like to not have a heart attack, please.” 

It’s said with a pretty well mustered poker face but she still laughs a little. “This is supposed to be serious.”

“I am being serious.” Peter blinks. “And even more when I say: whatever you want, Miss.”

She finds that she likes that name. It curls her toes, makes her insides tingle, makes her thighs press together and her hand to slide up the pants of his jeans, and lean onto his mouth when he moves to give her open-mouthed kisses.

“Anything you want, Miss.”

Her breathing is hot and heavy, her thighs bracketing his now, her fingers instinctively curling around the bunched material of his shirt around his shoulders.

“I’m so hard for you, Miss,” he mutters between hot opened mouth kissing.

Her hips roll forward against his, feeling he's telling the truth, and feels her heat pooling between her own legs. Michelle bites his lip when he begs for release and getting an arousing noise from him, the passion returning. 

“Who said this was about you?” she teases, knowing his comment was to redirect the attention back to his needs.

Peter corrects himself in apology. But he hisses when her fingers pull him free of his boxers. His ears burst cherry red at the exposure.

“Who said anything about whether you’re hard or not?” she edges on, wrapping her fingers around him and earning a thick swallow. Her hand works him and Peter’s breathing grows shallow, his head bowing and eyes closing.

He alternates between heavy breathing, flared nostrils, and slight gasps as her hand slides and twists in time to her nibbles on his earlobe. Michelle receives a low “God!” and runs her tongue over the bite. His reactions change once she suddenly stops, his eyes flying open to see his girlfriend kneeling in front of him and on the bedroom floor.

Heavy-eyed and confused, Peter asks what she’s planning to do (though, really, he knows). In turn, Michelle shushes him. And noticing his blush has reached his cheeks, she asks with a smile what's suddenly got him flustered.

“It’s—nothing. It’s just that—you’re—”

“I’m what?” she challenges, immediately quieting him by taking advantage of his sensitivity, her palm picking back up at a quick pace.

Peter groans. “Y-you’re—but you said—and you're stroking my—”

“This isn’t about you, remember?”

And he nods. “But, Em—Miss Em,” he corrects himself before she caught.

Breath caught in his chest, Peter watches her coax and tease and stroke him as his hands manage to remain gripping the edge of her mattress to steady himself. She looks up at him once more, ignoring that he's still trying to talk—he talks so much.

She licks her lips and decides to quiet him herself.

“But what about—I, oh God!

Michelle hears more than sees him gasp, him flinch and whimpers. “Oh, Miss!” His posture tenses then slacks and his hands tighten around the edge of her bed. Humming in content, when she looks up her stare is assertive, knowing he wouldn't challenge her dominance in the moment, not after knowing the amount of teasing he'd done to her and that this is what he gets for it...but then again, Michelle doesn't think he would want this to end yet.

His lip quivers. He gasps. Moans. Calls her name between breaths as a plea, or an address, or a keen. Knuckles grow white and he bends to every move and command and twist of her fingers and glide of her tongue, and Michelle makes sure to keep her jaw loose and kisses abundant.